


The Call

by whyyesitscar



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-16
Updated: 2012-04-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 02:21:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whyyesitscar/pseuds/whyyesitscar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes you get to make your own choices, and sometimes a really big crash makes them for you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Santana

**Author's Note:**

> Post-OMW twoshot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics taken from "The Call" by Regina Spektor.

  
**let your memories grow stronger and stronger**   
**til they're before your eyes**   
**you'll come back, when they call you**   
**no need to say goodbye**   


I saw it first before anyone else—even Quinn or Rachel—before they even had a chance to think about it. Except for maybe Brittany; my girl has a sixth sense for people like you wouldn’t believe. But she never said anything until I mentioned it, so I’m going to stick with “I saw it first.” Like I said, I have awesome gaydar.

It wasn’t like I stalked them or anything. I just happen to be very good at noticing people, especially when these people have very public, very loud blowouts in glee rehearsal. Eventually, the rest of us who aren’t drama queens are going to get bored, and we might roll our eyes and think about other things—things like why Rachel and Quinn are fighting over Finn in the first place when obviously both of them are way out of his league. Like, light-years out. They’re mysterious, exciting, unreachable Neptune, and Finn is just plain old Earth.

So it doesn’t surprise me when Rachel flips out every second Quinn doesn’t show up for the wedding that shouldn’t be happening in the first place. I wish she would, though. The hobbit is getting really antsy and even though I’m not the touchy-feely type, if she doesn’t quiet down in a few seconds I’ll go over there and hug her until she’s unconscious. I’m getting desperate.

/ 

The clock is winding down on the Finchel trainwreck.

 _Quinn isn’t coming_ , I say.

 _Just a few more minutes_ , Rachel deflects.

 _Can we please just wait for Quinn_ , Rachel stalls.

Then the decision is made for them and it really isn’t a solution that anyone was imagining.

Judy Fabray calls Coach Sylvester who calls Mr. Schuester who bursts into the room amidst Rachel’s protests— _“Mr. Schue you can’t be here; it’s bad enough that Finn saw me before the wedding. I really can’t allow any males in the bride’s room”_ —and then nobody knows what to do after that.

It’s just a phone call that sets everything off. Just like that.

Brittany is sitting next to me, I think, and she grabs my hand. And then I’m holding two hands and Tina, right, she was on my other side—we’re all crying, in shock, everyone is too stunned to do anything more than react.

The tension, though. It’s about to explode.

Brittany looks at me and she is so sad, worse than when she broke up with Artie or when we had that terrible locker talk, and I hate that face. I hate when Brittany is sad, especially at times like this when I know there isn’t much I can do to fix it. I give her a quick, hard, determined kiss on the lips, reminding her that I am here. That she can touch me and kiss me and because of that, we can do anything. Anything is possible. She smiles at me and I break our gaze long enough to do a quick scan around the room.

Mr. Schue, for once, is speechless and I realize that sometimes adults don’t always have the answers. Sometimes when things are so bad and unexpected like this, there are no adults and teenagers or teachers and students or parents and kids. There are just people.

Rachel, for her part, is about to become extremely inconsolable, and that makes up my mind.

“Britt, baby,” I murmur. “Do you still have my keys?” She thinks for a moment then grabs them from the coat closet. I kiss her on the temple and lead her out of the room, grabbing Rachel with my other hand.

“Santana, what….?” she manages between garbled sobs.

“Don’t play dumb right now, Berry. Obviously we’re going to the hospital. Unless you’d rather stay here?”

I stop in front of my car, waiting to unlock it until I know for sure that she’s coming. She’s taking an annoyingly long time to answer.

“No,” she stutters, “no, I don’t want to stay here.”

I click the remote and scramble into the driver’s seat. “Okay. Then we’re going.” Brittany’s hand settles on my thigh and I almost give in. I almost let out the fear that’s been lurking at the edge of my mind. It’s just so easy to let go of everything when Brittany’s around. She makes me feel safe. But I can’t do that right now; I can’t let myself worry about my best friend because if I do then I’ll cry and I have to at least see a little when I start driving.

I brush my fingers over Brittany’s hand, a silent thank-you, and check my rearview mirror as I put the car into reverse. Rachel is busying herself with her fingers, pressing them into her legs in a (futile) attempt to stop them from shaking. I frown, unexpectedly touched. I used to do the exact same thing. Before Brittany, I mean.

“Hey.” She doesn’t as much as look up. “Hey, Berry.” Nothing. I sigh and unbuckle my seatbelt, twisting around to face the backseat. I put my hand over hers. “Rachel, stop.” I can feel them trembling still. “Rachel. Save it for later, okay? Right now we don’t know anything. Save the tears for the very slim chance that things go really wrong.” She sniffles and nods her head so disjointedly that I can’t tell if she’s actually nodding or if the shaking has just migrated upwards.

“Are you okay?” I need to make sure before I leave because I can’t handle a psychotic Rachel Berry right now. She doesn’t nod again until I give her a small (but no less genuine) smile; I think she’s surprised. She still expects Santana the Bitch, but there are no bitches or divas or ditzes or cheerleaders or choir nerds in this car right now. We’re still just people.

I pat her hand and turn back around, starting the car and driving off with far more control than I feel.

Brittany squeezes my hand, and I wish that I could just have one moment to be upset about the fact that my best friend just got hit by a truck.

/ 

It’s not like Quinn and I have been friends forever. I didn’t talk to her until a few months into freshman year, and even then I thought she was the biggest bitch in the world. Brittany and I, we’ve been friends since seventh grade. Sometimes I think about it and I wish that we’d had that little-kid friendship where you’re five years old and the entire world revolves around your very best friend and there really isn’t anything off-limits for either of you. But then I think about seventh-grade friendships and how they’re based on tough times, on finding that right person to guide you through insecurities, someone who comes back after you phase them out and actually listens to your apologies. Seventh-grade friendships are the most forgiving friendships in the world if you do them right. It’s what I’ve always needed with Brittany—forgiveness. I never really did little-kid friendships. I just went right to the hard stuff. It seems like the older I get, the more friendships focus on things you go through rather than common interests.

That’s what my friendship with Quinn is like. We’ve been through of things together, things like scary relationships and pregnancies and pink hair.

Sometimes, when I was feeling really bad about hurting Brittany, I’d drive over to Quinn’s house. She and her Jesus-family had this weird idea that everyone should feel welcome at their house and so they kept a spare key under their doormat. I’d wanted to roll my eyes every time I used it, but I only used it when I really needed to and Quinn’s house always felt more like home to me than mine. Not home like Brittany’s house did, but home like your favorite cousin’s house. Home like family. I never told her I was coming over, but there was a plate of pancakes for me every morning whether I was there or not. In the months before Nationals, I usually was.

One time I gave her a bath while she was pregnant because she was really sore and her mom wasn’t speaking to her and she was too sad to do anything for herself. So I ran her some water, helped her undress, and spent an hour reading gossip magazines out loud. She fell asleep.

So I need her to be okay. This can be another thing that we go through, but I can’t do it if it’s not together. Look, I was really good at that bath, okay? I don’t mind being nice when it’s someone I like. I would gladly do that all again and this time I wouldn’t read gossip magazines. I would make sure she was awake so we could talk and I would tell her important things.

I would say sorry for lizard babies.

I would say thank you for pancakes.

I would say, _“Do you need me to rinse your hair?”_ and she would say, _“Yes, thank you, Santana”_ and I’d fill a cup and I wouldn’t even make a crack about her being naked because I’ve seen her naked a million times, and because _someone_ has got to give her a bath and her mother can be really overbearing sometimes.

“Best friends” isn’t really enough to describe what Brittany and I have, so I need Quinn back. I don’t even mind if she’s broken.

Broken is kind of my specialty.

/ 

Rachel has channeled all of her nerves into energy by the time we get to the hospital and she bursts out of the car like she’s on fire. I don’t even think she would move this fast if Barbra Streisand were the one in the hospital bed. Brittany and her long legs have no problem keeping up, but I’m straggling at the back, getting a workout fit for a goddamn Cheerios practice in these heels.

Rachel is full-on into nerd mode when I finally catch up, speaking ten million miles a minute at the poor nurse behind the desk. She’s really just saying “Quinn Fabray” every third word, like she doesn’t know any other ones, so at least it’s not hard to miss her point. The nurse directs us to the fourth floor and I never like going up in hospitals. If you’re not on the first floor—where the lobby is; where the gift shop is; where everything is that also might _not_ be in a hospital—something is really wrong with you. Death hides above the first floor.

Rachel spots Mrs. Fabray first and she goes all shy, twisting her engagement ring and hanging back, looking to Brittany and me for guidance. It’s not like I really know what to do here—Quinn’s mom is not Brittany’s mom. Quinn’s mom is not genuinely warm and fuzzy; Quinn’s mom hides behind her husband; Quinn’s mom makes brownies from a box.

(Then I shake my head and remember that Quinn is warm and fuzzy on occasion, that Judy Fabray left her husband, and Quinn must have gotten it from somewhere).

She is frazzled, her hair sagging near her temples. I find a group of three seats across from her; I don’t want to crowd her right now. It’s not like we know her any better than Rachel does anyway. Brittany sits on my left and immediately takes my hand. Rachel takes the other side and parks her hands resolutely in her lap, fiddling with her trembling fingers again.

I grab her left hand with my right because the shaking makes me nervous. Her grip is tight and her hand is small like mine and she’s sitting in a chair worried about Quinn like I am, and I guess I’ve never really considered that Rachel is an actual person, and I start to cry.

I want to hold Quinn’s hand.

/ 

I know we all look ridiculous sitting in the waiting room. Bridesmaids and groomsmen all out of place.

My tears have ebbed and I concentrate on people. I make a list in my head of all the different ways Quinn is important to everyone in the room.

Mercedes put her up for a bit during the pregnancy.

Sam gave her a promise ring.

Mr. Schuester would be good at being her dad.

Kurt and Blaine and Rory and Tina and Mike and Artie did the play with her, and plays make you closer. I know that. Plays are sort of like things you go through _and_ common interests.

Finn loved her first.

Puck loved her better.

Rachel.

(If Brittany was the one in the hospital bed , banged up and unconscious, less than fifty-fifty on whether she’s going to wake up again, I’d look a lot like Rachel does right now).

Rachel is _in love_ with Quinn.

The doctor comes by an hour later and his face is grim and his words sterile. Even though I know what they mean— _multiple surgeries, internal bleeding, very cautious with her spine, waiting game, lucky girl_ —I can’t really understand them. They’re buzzing around in my head at breakneck speeds and it feels just like when I did shots at Puck’s house right around the time Brittany was still happy with Artie. It’s that whirlwind before the crash. I feel like I’m drunk on worry and fear and what-ifs, and there’s really only one thing I’m awesome at when I’m drunk.

The tears are back again, full-force and ugly.

/ 

The next few hours are like one of those movie montages where everything is fast and then slow and then fast again, and people are walking around blurry but their fingers and eyes are totally clear and they notice the fly on the wall and the ticking of the clock.

Kurt paces around the room until Blaine grabs him and takes him for a walk. They don’t come back.

Finn is too big for any of the hospital chairs but he tries to sit in one anyway. I think he’d try to kick it if they weren’t all bolted together. I don’t blame him for wanting to.

Puck’s fists are clenched and when he leaves I know he’s going to find the one piece of Quinn that is still perfect.

/ 

Five hours later and mostly everyone has left. They keep coming back in spurts.

The doctor comes back to an audience of five—Brittany, Rachel, Mrs. Fabray, Puck and me—and tells us that Quinn isn’t out of the woods yet, but she is out of surgery and stabilizing.

Mrs. Fabray’s hand flutters somewhere near her chest; Puck sags in his seat; Brittany buries her face in my neck; Rachel rests her head on my shoulder.

I wish Quinn would wake up so I’m not the only one hugging everybody. Santana Lopez is not a hugger.

/ 

I tell Rachel to call her dads when the doctor leaves. The worst is over, I tell her, even though I’m not completely sure that’s true.

She gets out the word “Daddy…” before she dissolves into incomprehensible squeaking, and I can feel Brittany laugh a little next to me. I roll my eyes and tap Rachel on the shoulder, gesturing for her to hand the phone over. I take a breath and get into my “I am Santana Lopez and parents _love_ me” character.

“Mr. Berry? Hi, it’s Santana Lopez; we met at the wedding.”

He clears his throat on the other end and hesitates. I think he’s trying to place me. “Right, you were the one in the pink dress.”

“Um…”

He chuckles nervously. “Sorry, bad joke,” he says, and I think I’m talking to the nervous one with the glasses. "What happened to Rachel?”

“She’s a little…upset,” I say delicately. “I just thought you’d want to know that Quinn is out of her first surgery and she’s not perfect yet, but she’s stabilizing. I thought maybe you’d want to call Finn’s parents and let them know or something. And can I send Brittany to get some clothes? We’re all kind of sweating through our dresses here.”

There is a faint click on his end. I think he snapped his fingers. “You’re the Hispanic girl on the Cheerios with the ‘fiery yet misguided passion,’ aren’t you?”

“Uh.”

“You should come around for dinner when this is all over. I think you’d get along with Leroy fabulously.”

“Okay?”

“And bring your lovely girlfriend. Rachel is always talking about both of you.”

If Rachel weren’t such a mess right now, I’d shoot her a glare so hot her face would melt. Brittany cocks her head, asking me what’s going on, and I shrug. I don’t really know.

“Sure, Mr. Berry. We’ll come up with something. Um, I’ll send Brittany over for some clothes, and, uh, Rachel’s fine; she’ll probably stay here for a while so I’ll make sure she calls you sometimes and stuff…”

Maybe now I understand why Finn is the way he is all the time.

I listen to Rachel’s dad give me directions to their house before I can remind him that we don’t need directions—we have iPhones. Nervous-Mr. Berry thanks me and I hang up, not wanting to prolong the awkward silence that was already starting to build. I deposit Rachel’s phone in her lap and turn to address Brittany.

“Britt, could you pop over to Rachel’s and get some clothes for her? And some for us, too; her house is closer to yours. I think I still have some sweats in your dresser.” She nods and gives Rachel a small smile. I grab her wrist before she leaves the room. “Um, try not to spend too much time there. You know how Rachel’s weird? Her dads are even worse.” Brittany giggles and kisses me on the forehead, and I know that Quinn is down the hall, bruised and battered, but I’m sure I’m grinning like a fool.

I pull Rachel up from her chair and drag her in the direction of the elevators.

“Santana, I’m not sure—”

“You’re going to go crazy if you stay in that waiting room all day, Berry. Hell, _I’m_ going to go crazy if you stay in that waiting room all day.”

We find a Starbucks-knockoff in the food area. I get the largest hot chocolate I can for me. Rachel wants a chai tea, and she is surprised when I ask if she wants that with soy milk, like I haven’t noticed one of her gazillion _‘vegan food is the best food’_ rants.

We sit at a tiny table in the corner and she keeps looking around, like Quinn is going to materialize just behind her shoulder any minute.

“Rachel. Cool it, would you?”

“Sorry,” she mumbles into her tea. “You’re very good with Brittany.”

“She’s not a child, Berry.”

Her cheeks flush and she immediately shakes her head. “No, I just mean…I can see why she loves you. You’re good when you’re with her. I know she’s not a child.”

I clear my throat. “Thanks. I think.”

There is a heavy silence. Rachel, I think, is waiting for me to speak. She turns her head to look over her shoulders so much that I wonder if I’m going to be in a remake of _The Exorcist_. I play with the rim of my cup, waiting for words to come.

“Maybe we should get back—”

“Last year,” I interrupt, “when I was a bigger bitch than normal, it was because I was so scared of being with Brittany. I didn’t tell anyone about it. I barely spoke to my parents; I cut off all contact with Quinn. I didn’t want to talk about it because I felt so ashamed—not ashamed of being with Brittany, but ashamed of my fear. I was miserable. And then about a month after Valentine’s Day, I told Brittany how I felt. She shot me down, and it sucked. But I started feeling better because I’d finally told someone. I realized that the whole time I was keeping everything in, a part of me really just wanted to spill it all. Even though I didn’t get the response I wanted, I was relieved that I wasn’t alone.”

I have Rachel’s full attention now. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I think you’ve been miserable for a long time. This is your chance to tell someone.”

She takes a sip of her tea and appraises me, a look that absolutely belongs on Quinn Fabray’s face but seems a little out of place on Rachel’s. And then the words start.

“I don’t know what’s going on, Santana, I really don’t; Quinn has always hated me and there’s Finn but it seems like she’s so interested in my life lately and she told me that I’m destined for bigger things and she tried to stop my wedding and it would so unbearably romantic if it wasn’t so confusing, and this is all so sudden, all these things that I’m feeling; they’re things I should be feeling for Finn but he’s just getting smaller and I don’t know what I’ll do if Quinn isn’t okay.” She sighs and trains her eyes on the table, blushing. “I don’t even think I’m gay, Santana. It’s just…it’s all very confusing.”

I give her an exasperated look. “You of all people, growing up in the house that you did, shouldn’t need me to tell you that you don’t have to be gay to love a girl.”

She nods. “I know, I just—it feels so unfair and selfish of me to be pining after Quinn when she’s hurt and Finn…” She scratches her nose nervously. “I don’t know what to do about Finn.”

“Oh, please, Berry. Of course you know what to do. You just don’t want to do it.” She glares at me and if we were in the choir room right now, she’d be storming out. But we’re not; we’re in a hospital and the only place she can storm to has the two people she doesn’t want to deal with for a while. So instead she purses her lips and listens. “Here’s how I look at this, Rachel: you’re going to end up hurting Finn no matter what you do, so you might as well be honest about it. I’m not saying it’s going to end up perfectly with Quinn. It might not. I can’t speak for her. But I’ve been where you are and I can tell you that even if things don’t work out the way you want them to, it’s better that you get everything out there. It’s always better with feelings.”

“You figured that out while you were miserable?”

“No, Brittany taught me that.”

“Right.” She looks forlornly at her cup of tea. “My tea’s kind of cold. We should go back.”

I roll my eyes. “I’ll buy you another one. I have to get some hot chocolate anyway.”

“Why? You’ve got half of yours left.”

“Yeah, but Brittany doesn’t have any, does she?” There is a small smile playing at the corner of Rachel’s lips. It’s the first smile that I’ve seen from her in hours, even when she was getting married, which is why I bite back a snarky retort. “What, Finn never bought you a drink because he thought you’d like it?”

Okay, I _almost_ bite back a snarky retort.

“That’s very sweet,” she says, definitely smiling now. “And now that you mention it—I guess small romantic gestures weren’t always Finn’s forte.”

We get back in line behind a woman as wide as both of us put together. I wonder if she’s a relative or a patient trying to get all the bad stuff in before she sees the doctor. “Well, Quinn would buy you a hot chocolate _and_ a gluten-free muffin. I’m just saying.” Okay, a crestfallen face isn’t exactly what I was going for. “That was a joke, Berry. I joke sometimes.”

I order a hot chocolate for Brittany and bully the barista into giving me another chai with soy, this time for free. Santana Lopez is not a hugger and Santana Lopez does not apologize.

(But Santana Lopez will always make it up to you somehow).

Rachel’s steps are lighter as we walk away. “Is that how you got Brittany to date you—plied her with free food?” She’s expecting my glare, but this time she accepts it with a smile. “I can joke sometimes, too, Santana.”

I think I chuckle involuntarily. “Well it works, doesn’t it?”

We walk down the hall toward the elevators and as she takes Brittany’s hot chocolate from my hand so she can link our arms, I think that maybe Rachel Berry isn’t so bad.

/ 

There are no happy faces waiting for us when we get back to the waiting area. Apparently Quinn crashed while the doctor was giving Mrs. Fabray a status report, and it took him fifteen minutes to come back and say that she was okay again. This explains why Brittany flings herself at me the minute I’m in her line of sight, and now I’m really glad Rachel was carrying her drink.

I grab the hot chocolate from where Rachel has put it on the table and sit with Brittany in a sort-of-private-corner.

“Are you okay, Brittany?” I ask softly, rubbing calming circles in the space where her index finger meets her thumb.

“That’s a silly question, Santana. Of course I’m not.”

“Sorry,” I murmur. “I just don’t really know what to say.”

“Me either.” She takes a loose strand of my hair and twists it around her finger, pulling it tight enough for it to tug uncomfortably at my scalp. I realize that we’re still in our bridesmaids dresses even though Brittany is back and that means she’s got a change of clothes. I have a sudden, aching need to be at Brittany’s house. We would sit on her couch and watch romantic comedies because even though the wedding was the worst idea ever, it still had a little bit of wedding magic. Even the most ill-timed, impromptu weddings have wedding magic. And whether or not Finn and Rachel had gone through with it, Brittany and I would be cuddled up on her couch, watching sappy marriage movies and thinking that getting married is kind of a big deal and it’s scary and forever and maybe it’s not completely out of the question. And when I’d look over at her, head resting on my chest, longs legs covered by oversized sweatpants, I’d know that it was the only question for me.

“Santana?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“The doctors said that Quinn was texting someone when she…when it happened.”

“Okay.” I sweep a patch of hair from her forehead and wait. Brittany always has a point. She just makes it in a roundabout way sometimes.

“Well, I was just thinking that she was probably texting Rachel about the wedding, and that means she has to wake up. Because, well, it’s kind of like one of those movies where everything bad that can happen to the main character does, but you know that it can’t all be bad because there’s still half an hour left in the movie. The story isn’t over so it kind of has to get better. Kind of like how we weren’t over even though I didn’t break up with Artie right away.”

“I don’t think we’ll ever be over, Brittany,” I say softly.

“Right, but I don’t think Quinn and Rachel are done with their story yet either because Quinn hasn’t told Rachel the real reason she was so against the wedding and Rachel hasn’t told Quinn that she should have listened in the first place. So Quinn has to wake up.”

I press a lingering kiss to her forehead. “I think you’re right, Britt-Britt.”

She relaxes her grip on my hair. “What did you and Rachel talk about?”

I pull Brittany close to me and rest my cheek on the top of her head. “I told her that she’s got a story to finish.”

Brittany looks up at me and smiles. “You willingly had a conversation with Rachel Berry about feelings?”

I smile back. “Well, some really smart blonde taught me that it’s better to be honest. I just thought Rachel could do with a little reminding.”

This time last year, I thought being strong meant being guarded. Being so tough that no one could shatter the stone face I’d perfected. But Brittany came and blew it to pieces anyway, and she taught me that being strong is being resilient, being confident in everything you do especially when it’s easier to be afraid. Strong does not mean keeping love at bay. Strong means embracing it.

Right now—as I realize that Brittany depends on me just as much as I depend on her; as I wrap a protective arm around her shoulder; as I recognize that love is really something you are rather than something you do and I can finally be all of me because of one brilliant lady—I am the strongest I’ve ever felt.

/ 

Seven hours later and Quinn is finally stable enough to have visitors. She’s in a medically-induced coma and her body is contorted, enlarged in some places and sunken in others, but she is _alive_. Mrs. Fabray practically ran to the room when the doctor said she could, and after ten tense minutes of waiting, Brittany and I walked in to find her asleep in a chair, body positioned so that she had a constant visual on Quinn’s face (or she would if her eyes were actually open).

But the other side of Quinn is free of people, and Brittany drags the only other chair over. She gestures for me to take a seat, but I much prefer to sit on the edge of Quinn’s bed.

Her ribcage is thick with bandages; her face is pale and speckled with bruises, deep purple like the sky when it’s still deciding whether it should be night and day. It is the deep purple of a question no one can really answer.

Brittany raises her eyebrows, prompting me to say something, but I shake my head. I don’t want to wake Quinn’s mom, and besides, there will be plenty of time later for words and tears and apologies.

There is a pulse monitor on Quinn’s middle finger, but her left hand is relatively unscathed. It is warm and lonely and just waiting for someone to hold it.

So I do.


	2. Rachel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics taken from "The Call" by Regina Spektor.

  
**it started out as a feeling, which then grew into a hope**   
**which then grew into a quiet thought, which then grew into a quiet word**   
**and then that word grew louder and louder until it was a battle**   
**i'll come back when you call me, no need to say goodbye**   


Hospitals, I decide, are not the places I’d imagined them to be.

Being raised by two gay dads is somewhat like being raised on a stage where every musical ever made plays in an infinity loop. It makes you appreciate the romantic side of things—happy things, angry things; even the saddest things are beautiful. What I know about hospitals from musicals and television shows and films is that there is a silent grace about these places. The flurry of activity in the emergency room, the drone of beeping machines, the complete state of exhaustion that everyone seems to be in, even the doctors—these are the romantic parts of a hospital, the parts that people write about and make films about. The parts that are just completely filled with the human experience.

But there is no grace about Quinn’s hospital.

There is only silence, and I find myself wishing that she was still on the first floor, even if that meant she would be in a critical condition. Not that I want her to be broken and bloody and fighting for her life with even more vigor than she is now, but at least on the first floor you don’t have to do much else but react. It isn’t out of place to cry hysterically. On the first floor, you can be loud and brash and obnoxious and people will write it off because you’re worried. Because someone you love is either very sick or very hurt and people can’t hold you to your sanity when you’re worried. On the first floor, you don’t have to hold anything back. On the first floor, you can show all of your feelings and no one will think twice.

But the fourth floor is subdued and serious. The fourth floor is where doctors put those patients who are too well for the first floor but too sick to go home. The fourth floor is a stasis floor, for patients and visitors alike. Insistent, heartsick screams turn into determined questions; shaking fingers transform into purposeless pacing. The fourth floor turns even the most passionate cheerleader I know into a worried wreck.

I hate the fourth floor because it leaves me alone with my thoughts and doesn’t apologize, and most of my thoughts are not things I should be thinking right now.

_What if she doesn’t think she’s beautiful anymore?_

_Why aren’t Finn and I like Brittany and Santana?_

_If I had gotten married, would there still be this much hurt?_

_My tea is cold again and I can’t ask Santana for another one but I don’t have any money in this stupid dress._

At the very least I could hone my avoidance skills on the first floor.

Instead I think and wait.

And wait some more.

* * *

 

“Here.” A gigantic pack of Twizzlers drops onto my lap. I look up to see Brittany take a seat next to me. “Santana wanted a soda because her stomach gets all funny when she’s upset and then we bought a lot of snacks and I said we should get something for you and Santana looked it up and Twizzlers are totally kosher.”

“Vegan,” I correct quietly.

“Oh yeah. That, too.”

I smile and open the package. “Thank you, Brittany. Would you like one?”

She shakes her head. “No, thanks. I just ate some green Dots and I don’t like to mix my fruits and vegetables.”

“Right.”

“Oh, I forgot.” She pulls a duffel bag out from under her chair. “Santana told me to give you this. I got you some clothes. Mostly sweatpants and stuff because I didn’t think you’d want any tight clothes like that dress. Your dads are really cool, by the way. I made them explain your closet twice because they got so excited about it. There’s a bathroom around the corner if you want to change. I’ll watch your Twizzlers.”

I take the bag from her and thank her once again.

“You’re welcome,” she says brightly. “By the way, Santana said that when it’s okay to leave you’re coming home with us.”

I scrunch my eyebrows and shift the bag onto my shoulder. “Why?”

Brittany grabs a magazine and starts flipping through it. “Did you know that Santana’s really good with pets? She gets, like, super protective.”

/

The clothes that Brittany has selected are my loosest and most comfortable clothes. She even brought an old pair of dog slippers that I haven’t worn in years. I smile and put those back into the bag. Maybe later.

I check myself in the mirror. My makeup has smudged in places. Nothing as dramatic as teary black streaks down my face—because I wear waterproof mascara every day, just in case—but there are patches where blush has rubbed away. Eyeshadow spreads across my temples after multiple bleary swipes at my eyes. I scrub water on my face and clean off what I can. Then I release my hair from its tight bun and re-style it in a loose ponytail. Somehow I look more tired than before.

After a moment’s deliberation, I put the dog slippers on anyway and go for a walk.

Who knows what I might step on if I go barefoot.

/

Brittany texts me ten minutes after she and Santana disappear to visit Quinn.

_I think Quinn’s getting lonely. Wanna come see her?_

These slippers make it really difficult to run.

/

Brittany and Santana are waiting for me outside of Quinn’s room. Their faces are terribly tired and heavy with emotions, but the brightest of those emotions is relief and I feel my heart leap.

Santana is the first to greet me. “Hey, Rachel.” She points a thumb at Quinn’s door. “Judy is still in there, but she’s dead to the world, so you won’t bother her. Just get in quick because some nurse was giving me the evil eye a minute ago.”

I nod. “How is…? I mean, does she…?”

(After seventeen years of almost incessant talking, I suppose speech was bound to fail me sometime).

Santana looks down, words forsaking her as well.

“She looks bad,” Brittany answers. “Worse than when Mr. Hummel was in the hospital. But you can touch her.”

I nod again, at a loss for what else to do. Santana gives my arm a squeeze and tells me she and Brittany will be in the waiting room when I’m done. I smile gratefully as they walk away and try to think of ways to open the doors without my fingers, which seem to be undergoing an earthquake at the moment. I am two seconds away from turning the knob with my nose and pushing with my shoulder when I catch movement at the end of the hallway. Remembering Santana’s advice about Nurse Ratchet, I hurry into the room.

Brittany was right. She does look bad.

(But I can touch her).

I sit in the empty chair and grab Quinn’s hand. It is warm and I don’t know if that’s because Santana and Brittany were just holding it or because Quinn is actually warm. I choose to believe the latter.

Her face is a mess. Her body is a mess. Her hair is matted and a mess.

I grab her hand, and by association, I am a mess, too.

“I’m sorry, Quinn,” I say, tears garbling my words. They leave my mouth slower than I intended. “I’m sorry that I didn’t listen to you in the bathroom and I’m sorry that I didn’t listen to you about anything even when you listened to me and I’m sorry that I was texting you and I’m sorry that I didn’t just tell you that you were right and offer to meet you for a coffee so you could give me some more advice that I would actually listen to. I’m sorry that your car is wrecked because I know you love that thing, and—God—I’m sorry that you’re wrecked, too.”

For a fleeting moment I think that it would be easier if Finn had been the one to crash and I shake my head because that is a terrible thing to think, and there is already one terrible thing lying prone on the bed in front of me.

I stand up and look at her because I have started to sweat all over her palm and I can’t find another place to touch that doesn’t also look like I would hurt her. I just watch her, take in the black circles around her eyes, purple bruises on her cheeks, angry cuts on her arms. I’m sure there are other things I can’t see, and I don’t really want to. If this is the worst that I can see, I can delude myself into thinking the sheets aren’t hiding something even more traumatic.

I walk to the end of her bed and squeeze her feet. They feel small under my fingers, and I know that I have small hands to begin with. Covered by a blanket, they feel almost soft. They feel like Quinn is under the covers on any old bed in any old place. I imagine that this is what Quinn feels like when she curls up on a couch and I squeeze again, just in case I’m not going to get an opportunity to later.

“I think the only thing I’m not sorry about, Quinn, is the fact that I didn’t get married. I am sorry you weren’t there to see it, though. You would have known what to do more than anyone else.”

Quinn always knows what to do. Most of the time, I do too. When I don’t know what to do, I leave until I can figure it out.

The room is suddenly small and stifling and far too dark. I’ve said all I wanted to, anyway.

* * *

 

Santana drives us all back to Brittany’s house, and one of them has obviously been talking to Brittany’s parents because they’ve left a bottle of aspirin on the table right inside the door with a note: _Try to get some sleep, girls. Sleep does wonders._

Santana chuckles. “God, I love your parents, Britt.” She shakes the bottle.

Santana leads us into the kitchen and grabs glasses down from a cabinet, maneuvering around the fridge like she owns the place. The kitchen is bright and quiet and it finally sinks in that the sun is out. It is daytime. In the movies, it is always the blackest night when the concerned friend returns home and they fall asleep immediately and don’t wake up until it is nighttime again.

In reality the daylight is bright and I don’t think I’ll be sleeping for a long time.

Santana hands me a glass of water and begins to walk upstairs. I follow her, feeling like an intruder when it becomes clear that we’re going to Brittany’s room. There are signs of Santana all over this room—pictures, clothes, a pair of glasses that I saw her wear once during play rehearsals. She was exhausted and puzzling over her lines and she said that her eyes were tired. I suppose she hides them here the rest of the time.

Santana grabs the remote for the television as Brittany pats the bed, gesturing for me to climb in. I do, and her covers are warm and soft and they smell good. Santana finds an _America’s Next Top Model_ marathon and snuggles in next to Brittany, resting her head on the blonde’s chest. I suddenly realize that Santana is shorter than Brittany. Funny—she always seems so tall.

Santana passes me two aspirin and even though I usually restrict myself to one tablet, I swallow both anyway.

I don’t even make it to the second episode.

/

The next time I wake up, the house is dark and someone has turned off the TV. My water has gone lukewarm and my throat is dry, so I sneak down to the kitchen to refresh it. Santana is sitting at the kitchen table, both hands clutching a glass of pink juice that is dripping condensation down her fingers. The oven clock tells me it’s a little after three in the morning.

“Hey,” I say quietly, opening the fridge.

“I’m not in the mood for a chat, Berry,” she clips. Her voice is cold and fatigued.

I grab a chair from the other side of the table and drag it around directly behind Santana’s but facing the opposite direction. I sit stiffly, mimicking Santana’s grip around her glass.

“Do you ever feel like you’re settling for Brittany? I mean, not that she’s not great and not that you’re not perfect for each other, but she’s your first love, you know? There are so many other people in this world.”

“Brittany is my first and only love in this world, Berry. She’s the one thing that always makes sense about my life.”

I nod sadly. That’s what I expected to hear, but it’s not what I wanted. I take a sip of water and then a deep breath and then another sip.

“Sometimes I feel like Finn doesn’t make sense to me,” I admit in a shaky voice. It’s something I’ve felt since the beginning of the year, but I just brushed it off as creative differences. If I’m going to make it in the theater world, I have to accept that creative differences happen and they are not the end of the world.

(But sometimes, when they get to be too big, a partnership cannot sustain. And _that_ frightens me more than I care to confess).

“Yeah, well, that’s your problem, isn’t it? I stand by what I said at the hospital. Grow some girl-balls.”

She juts her chair backward, knocking rudely into mine and sloshing my water over the edge of my glass. As she walks past me, I see her paw angrily at her eyes.

I let it go.

/

(“H’lo?”

“Hi, Finn.”

“Rach, hey!” He clears his throat. A cough. “Hey. How are you?”

“I’m—I don’t know.” A shaky breath. “Quinn looks really bad, and I just…I miss you.”

“I can come over if you want.”

“No, I’m at Brittany’s. Can you sing to me?”

An indulgent laugh. “Sure.” He sings ‘I’ll Stand by You’ and I put my head on the table.

I felt calmer when I sang about nose jobs and makeup.

I fall asleep anyway).

* * *

 

Quinn is in a medically-induced coma for three days.

Spring break started yesterday.

Absent anything else to do, I fall back on what is easiest. I plan and organize. I create a visiting schedule, not just for Quinn but for everyone else, too. Mercedes spends time with Brittany and Santana for an hour at the park. Finn hangs out with Rory and Sam. They go bowling, and I’m pretty sure they’re drunk by the time they get back. Everyone agrees because it doesn’t feel right to have fun on this particular spring break and no one really knows what else to do. Besides, we have just a few months before hanging out becomes a luxury, when we might have to catch a plane to make it happen.

Before sophomore year, I hadn’t really given much thought to taking my high school friends with me, mostly because I didn’t really have high school friends. I was more than happy to make June of 2012 the last time I’d ever see Quinn Fabray or Santana Lopez or Noah Puckerman. I couldn’t wait to prove to them that I was better than Lima, that I didn’t need to be tied to boring, drab Ohio.

I still am better than Lima. But, I think, so are they, and I’m going to miss them. And without ever planning it, I did get tied to Ohio. I got irretrievably wrapped to its sun-kissed yellows and cornfield-hazels, but I can’t take those with me because there are tubes attached and I might do permanent damage.

When Quinn wakes up, I am going to make sure she goes to Yale so that whenever I get sad in New York, I can take a train to see that happy piece of Ohio brighten my day.

/

I am not there when Quinn wakes up.

She does not wake up asking for me or anything romantic like that. She coughs, smiles at her mom, takes two sips of water, and falls back asleep again. So Santana’s told me.

It is a full day before she starts to recognize us. The medicine has her so doped out that she isn’t really cognizant of anything other than her food-water-sleep cycle.

After two days, she is sitting up and chatting—it requires a bit of labor on her part, but she is talking. She is talking and smiling and laughing even though she’s in a hospital bed and her spine is injured and the doctors aren’t quite sure about the “temporary” part of her paralysis.

And I think it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

I am there every minute I can make an excuse for. Free time is ignored; friends are forgotten; Finn is barely recognized.

I take the first two days of school off and spend them running errands for Quinn. I help Judy make the house more wheelchair-accessible. I rearrange her new room so that things are within arm’s reach. I have a very detailed conversation with Artie on whether or not he likes it when people push his chair. (He tells me that it depends entirely on the context and the person, and I smile because I am very good at reading dramatic tension).

I go back to school when my dads force me to. Brittany, Santana and I work out a shift schedule of sorts. I am at the hospital with Quinn in the afternoon, and they take the dinner hours after I realize I cannot subsist on a choice between hospital food or takeout.

(When Quinn gets released back home, I stick to the schedule. Having an actual dinner with the Fabrays in their house is more daunting than I’d like to experience.)

The glee club seems to take my role in stride, asking me for updates. Everyone except for Finn, who is not speaking to me.

I don’t blame him.

/

I find him a month later, right before I go meet Quinn at her first physical therapy session. She told me not to come, but Artie said she’d need a lot of support.  And I was planning on disregarding her anyway.

I am waiting for him at his locker when the last period lets out. He doesn’t smile.

“Hi,” I say softly.

“Hi,” he replies. He pulls books from his bag and meticulously places them inside his locker. I think he wants to throw them. “We’re kind of over, right?”

Finn and I are kind of over in the way that Quinn and I were kind of friends, so even though I don’t want to hurt him, I say yes.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “Kind of.”

His face pulls down in a taut grimace and all I want to do is hug him. “Can I—” He sucks in a breath and steels himself. “Can I have my ring back, please?” His voice is too calm and calculated.

“Finn, I—”

“Please, Rachel.”

“Of course,” I murmur. I slide it off my finger and give it to him.

He looks at it for a long moment, scrutinizing his palm. Then he hastily clears his throat and shoves the ring into his pocket.

He finally looks at me with unstable eyes. “Why?”

I feel my face get hot under his gaze. “I…I have feelings for Quinn,” I say.

He nods in resignation and practically punches himself in the eye with the heel of his hand. There are better ways to wipe away tears, but Finn has always had trouble with his emotions. I want to help him but I know I have no right.

“Why, though?” he asks. “Why Quinn? She was so mean to you for a long time.” I know he isn’t being rude. He is just trying to process everything.

“You weren’t very nice to me freshman year either, Finn,” I remind him. It isn’t an accusation. “If I can move past that once, it isn’t very hard to do it twice.”

He looks resolutely at the ground. “You look at her the way you used to look at me,” he says gruffly.

“I feel about her the way I used to feel about you,” I mumble, and it is the worst thing I have ever said because I never intended to hurt Finn this much.

But it is the best thing I have ever said because I was being just as unfair to myself as I was to Finn, and sometimes the right thing to do is a selfish thing. I am sorry for the timing of my feelings, but I’m not sorry for feeling them.

“I’d still like to be friends, Finn,” I offer. “Not right now; I understand. But maybe later, if you’ll let me.”

He looks at me carefully, and for the first time ever, I don’t know how to read his face. Finn has never been difficult to read. When he is angry, I know it. When he is sad or happy or suddenly overcome with a burst of love for me, I know it. But I don’t know anything on his face right now, and I think that maybe the healing process is going to take a lot longer than I thought.

“Later is really far away, Rach.”

He closes his locker and walks away without another word.

/

(Kurt calls me after two days of the silent treatment and tells me to meet him at the Lima Bean. When I get there, he is already waiting for me with Mercedes, Brittany, and Santana.

Kurt spends half an hour berating me. Mercedes watches me silently. Brittany and Santana defend me, and if I had imagined all the different ways this situation could unfold, this wasn’t even close to any of them.

I spend a good deal of time crying into my tea and muffin, and by the end of a very long two hours we’re all mostly friends again.

I still don’t know what to do about Quinn).

* * *

 

She isn’t happy to see me when I show up at the physical therapy place, but she is relieved. A brief glance around the room tells me why—if I hadn’t shown up, I would have left her alone with Beth and Shelby. This whole ordeal is already a lot for Quinn to deal with. Shelby and Beth are a little bit too much extra.

We become her private cheerleading squad over the next few weeks, and I always smile at the irony of it—us cheering on a cheerleader. Brittany stops by sometimes but it is always without Santana because it’s kind of scary to see the once-untouchable Quinn Fabray struggle to perform the most basic of tasks.

There are times when Quinn doesn’t want me to look at her, so I don’t. Instead I watch Shelby with Beth. Shelby always holds Beth, and when she does put her down, she never lets Beth get too far away. I wonder if she would have been like this with me, or if she is like this _because_ of me, because now she finally has a child she can dote on and protect and she is going to exactly that. I wonder if Shelby is somehow trying to make up for every mistake she made with me by being extra maternal with Beth. I want to tell her that it isn’t a mistake if I understand why she did it, but neither physical therapy sessions nor school are the proper venues.

We are three weeks into grueling walking lessons before something spectacular happens.

Shelby, Beth, and I show up a little earlier than Quinn and we wait for her, chatting aimlessly. Beth has started to wriggle. Her feet go in every direction and I can’t help smiling. Shelby lets her toddle around for just a few seconds, chasing her with outstretched arms the whole time. Sometimes I think she’s limiting Beth too much, but I understand the need to coddle her. Every time Quinn falls down I want to tell her to stop. But I know it’s always better that she gets up, even if she is grumpy most times.

I’m laughing at Beth when Quinn rolls in, and she immediately starts laughing, too. She hoists herself up from her chair and stands at the balance bars that remind me so much of parallel bars except Quinn is using them for something much more awesome than gymnastics. Beth smiles and Quinn has the best day of therapy she’s had in a long time.

At the end of the session, Beth has become antsy in Shelby’s arms. She is struggling, pulling insistently in Quinn’s direction. Quinn notices and looks at Shelby for a long time before nodding. Shelby lets Beth go and I have to keep myself from crying.

Beth and Quinn are mirrors of each other, moving awkwardly toward one another. Beth’s feet are flapping heavily against the ground because she’s still a baby and she hasn’t learned how to be fluid yet. Quinn’s movements are almost identical because she’s relearning the concepts of fluid and grace. They meet in the middle and Beth latches onto Quinn’s leg. They have never seemed so much like mother and daughter, and I realize, in an epiphany-like moment, that Quinn really is her mother. Quinn is Beth’s mother like Shelby is my mother and that fills me with joy because I know that she is going to make an excellent mom.

At this point, my eyes give way under the weight of my tears, and Quinn’s legs almost give way under the effort it takes to stay standing. I am there behind her in an instant with her chair. She gathers Beth into her lap as she settles in.

There isn’t really anything else I can do at this point other than kiss her, and it’s what I want to do anyway.

So I do.

/

(I go to the Fabray house for dinners a lot more after that.

It’s not so daunting now that I know she actually wants me there).

/

The first time she kisses me in front of the glee club, nobody says a word.

I wonder if it’s because they’re too shocked or because Santana threatened them not to. Both of these seem equally plausible.

I decide that the time I devote to choosing one could probably be better spent kissing my girlfriend.

/

“What are you going to do next year?” she asks me one night as we snuggling on her couch.

(Whenever we snuggle, I always make sure she curls up enough so that I can reach her feet. She thinks it’s weird, but I think it’s lovely.)

I furrow my eyebrows. I don’t think it’s very hard to guess what I’m going to do next year. “Completely kick ass at the NYADA musical theater program,” I answer. “And visit New Haven as much as is humanly possible.”

“You will?”

I look at her like she’s crazy. “Of course I will. Why would I get into a relationship so close to graduation if I weren’t completely invested?”

She clears her throat and blushes. “Right. I was just checking.”

I smile indulgently and snuggle deeper into her, giving her toes an affectionate squeeze. “Oh yeah, I totally believe that.”

She rolls her eyes so spectacularly I think they’re going to fall off her face. “Can you quit that?”

“What?” I tease. “Indulging you? Never.”

“No, squeezing my toes. I might kick you if you do that.”

“Yeah, right,” I scoff. “I’d grab them before you ever did any serious—hey! You can feel me squeeze your toes?” She nods and smiles. “But you said they were all tingly even when you started walking. I didn’t want to question the doctors when they said that was normal because you were kind of sad but walking on tingly feet is absolutely the worst feeling in the world…” I catch her smiling at my rant and I stand up quickly, planting my hands on my hips. “Quinn Fabray, how long have you been able to actually feel your toes?”

“About five minutes,” she grins.

“And you didn’t tell me?!”

“What, and miss this moment? Never.”

I start frantically pacing, words coming out of my mouth only a fraction slower. “Well, even though you were a little cruel in your revelation, we need to start seriously thinking about this. We should plan an exercise regimen and I can do some research to see what kind of stretches doctors recommend and maybe you can go to Cheerios practice and walk around the track with Brittany and Santana; I’m sure that Coach Sylvester would make some allowances. But there isn’t any need to rush things, okay? We have to take this step by carefully-organized step.”

“I’m pretty sure the only one rushing here is you, Rach.”

I can’t help but match her giant grin with a ridiculously large one of my own.

“You, Quinn Fabray, are a little bit evil sometimes.” I kiss her cheek anyway.

“And you’re cute when you’re flustered,” she counters. She kisses me on the lips, and the couch has never felt safer; her lips have never been softer; her legs have never been so wonderful.

And I have never been so happy.

* * *

 

I am there when Quinn performs at Nationals standing up. I am there when we win and I secretly attribute our victory to her unfailing optimism.

I am there when Quinn walks across the stage at graduation.

I am there when Quinn paces furiously around her room, packing for college. I am there when she asks me why I’m smiling so much, and I’m there when I tell her that it’s pretty awesome to see her walking just for the sake of walking.

(I am there when she kisses me because she doesn’t have any witty retort).

I am there when we drive to airport to catch separate flights. I am there when we promise to get through at least a week of college without a visit. I am there when she gets off the train and runs— _runs_ , and I have to stop myself from crying—over to hug me. I am there when we spend three hours at my favorite coffee shop.

And I am there for every coffee date afterwards. 


End file.
